The World is a Thing of Shreds
by procrastin8or951
Summary: Dean sighed, felt the faint tug of stitches, of being sewn back, made whole. Had the faint memory of Castiel repairing him, of being gripped tight and raised, of flesh knitting together from shreds. Written for the hoodie time prompt: "Newly human Cas is learning first aid. Dean is the guinea pig who needs a billion stitches." Oneshot.


_Written for the prompt at hoodie_time: Newly human Cas is learning first aid. Dean is the guinea pig who needs a billion stitches._

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><p><strong>The World is a Thing of Shreds<strong>

In retrospect, it probably would've been wiser to teach Cas some simpler skills first. Like handling a pencil or chopsticks or hell, even a fork. The human version of Cas had shown almost no dexterity at all. Dean shouldn't have been as surprised as he was. It didn't take a lot of fine motor movements to smite things.

Dean wished he had thought of all of this before he had been mauled by a wendigo and in a haze of blood loss and adrenaline slurred something about this being a great time to teach Cas first aid. But blood loss and adrenaline were a potent combination and he didn't think of it. Sam, however, had no such excuse, the bastard, and he should have done something other than murmur his agreement while pressing his enormous hands over the slices across Dean's ribs.

By the time they got back to the motel room, Sam and Cas hauling Dean bodily across the parking lot while he tried to stop bleeding all over everything, the pain had edged out adrenaline, and it cleared his mind like nothing else could. And suddenly, watching Sam try to coach Cas through threading the needle, Dean realized the error of his ways.

Sam handed Dean a full bottle of whiskey and Dean took four large gulps before stating, "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

"He's got to learn somehow," Sam said reasonably, but Dean could read between the lines and what Sam was really saying was _better you than me_.

Dean took two more gulps and declined to reply.

By the time Cas had the needle threaded, Dean was well on his way to being comfortably buzzed, but that wasn't going to stop him from giving some instructions.

"It's not that hard, okay? Just like sewing. In one side, out of the other, and don't pull it too tight."

"I'm not sure this is wise," Cas stated, but Sam shook his head.

"It's fine. Dean's going to be a great patient for you. Right, Dean?"

"Fucking fanastic," Dean agreed sarcastically, knowing full well Cas usually didn't grasp sarcasm.

Cas nodded grimly, mouth forming a line as he held the needle out at arm's length.

"Wait, wait. Not like that," Sam intervened. "This is not a whole arm movement kind of thing."

"All in the wrist," Dean mumbled through slightly numb lips. "'S like tennis."

"I don't understand," Cas began, but Sam cut him off.

"Don't worry about it. He's drunk. Just follow my instructions."

"Not drunk," Dean stated plaintively. "Not yet. Not enough." He punctuated that with another pull of whiskey.

"Yeah, yeah. Lemme borrow that," Sam said, tugging the bottle out of his hand.

Dean stretched out on his side across the towels Sam had laid on the bed, hissing as the motion pulled at the gashes in his side. He lifted his arm away from where he had been guarding his ribs. "Go ahead."

He clenched his teeth, exhaled forcefully in something that was most definitely not a scream as Sam sloshed whiskey over his ribs. And then he felt Castiel place two fingers on his forehead as though he would just wipe the pain away, but then the rest of Cas' hand curved around the side of his face, brushed the short strands of hair from his forehead, ran gently through his hair.

"I am sorry for your pain," he murmured.

"Not that bad," Dean coughed, flexed his fingers at Sam, felt the cool neck of the bottle slide back into his grip, easy as anything. Another gulp.

"Any pain is regrettable," Cas said, but he moved his hand from Dean's head, moved to the bathroom to wash his hands under Sam's tutelage. Dean patted clumsily at the whiskey trickling across his chest, tinged red and tacky with blood, and he thought he may have gotten some blood in his alcohol stream and chuckled to himself. He tried to repeat the joke to Sam but the words didn't come out in the same order and Sam didn't get the joke. Sam never got the joke.

Cas smiled at him like he understood the joke, and Dean figured that meant the problem was not with Sam.

"'S easy," he murmured again as Castiel held up the needle again, and this time they let him, because he sterilized with whiskey and fire and that's as good as a birthright to being a hunter.

The first prick of the needle was too shallow. The second was too deep. The third was probably good enough except it was like an inch from the edge of the nearest cut. Dean took another sip of whiskey for each needle prick and remained as stoically silent as he could.

"Like this, Cas, see? Close like this, and then just under, and up, and there's one stitch. See?" Sam guided Cas' hand through the motions like he would a child, the way John had guided Dean's hand, the way Dean had guided Sammy's, and Dean bit the inside of his cheek and sucked down more whiskey to hide a smile.

"Try this one on your own," Sam said. Dean turned his head to peer at Cas, watched as the former angel furrowed his brow, tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, focused all his attention on doing this _right_ and –

"Fuckin' ow!" Dean grunted, and Cas flinched back.

"It's just a needle, Dean," Sam admonished. "Try again, Cas. Don't worry about it."

"Easy for you to say," Dean grumbled, but let Cas stick him again. "You're not the pincushion here."

"You volunteered," Sam pointed out, smirking. "Don't tell me a couple of stitches are gonna make Dean Winchester cry?"

"I am _not_ crying," Dean snapped, swiping at the moisture on his face. "That's sweat."

"From your eyeballs, maybe," Sam snorted.

"Fuck you."

"You know he's done eight stitches without you even noticing?" Sam said, looking triumphant.

Dean glanced down, taking in the crooked lines of thread, just a little too tight, but certainly functional. "Look, Sam. They all tilt left, just like yours."

"Is that bad?" Castiel asked, frowning. "I can redo them if necessary."

"It's fine," Dean said quickly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Not all of us can be as anal as you."

"I don't see you complaining when you barely scar." Dean took another gulp of the whiskey and Sam reached across and jerked it out of his hand.

"Enough. I'm not redoing your stitches if you pull them throwing up."

Dean flinched as the needle pierced his skin again. "I hate you both."

"I do not believe that," Cas said simply.

"It's a figure of speech," Dean said. "Gimme my whiskey back."

Sam sighed again, but returned the whiskey and Dean took another sip. Cas hummed disapprovingly, but continued the stitches without comment.

First time stitches are slow. By the time Cas finished, Sam was dozing against the headboard of the other bed, a book open on his chest, and Dean was three sheets to the wind, humming Metallica distractedly, only really sure of every third note.

"I think these will be sufficient," Cas said, finally, tying off the last one. "How do I proceed?"

Dean clumsily rolled the whiskey bottle toward Cas, even though the bottle was more square than round and flopped more than rolled. There was about an inch of whiskey left in the bottom. "San'tize 'gain," he muttered, letting his arm fall back onto the mattress with a delicate _thump_.

Cas furrowed his brow again, but poured the remaining whiskey over the cuts. Dean grabbed the lapel of his trench coat, knuckles turning white, clenched his teeth, but made no sound.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas murmured again, resting one hand on Dean's wrist, squeezing it gently.

"Dry 't off," Dean ordered, voice scarcely more than a whisper. "Antib'otic stuff. Gauze."

Cas patted his side dry with a clean towel, then rooted around in the first aid kit, actually pulled the right stuff out on the first try, and Dean foggily thought that the former angel had to have seen them do this a hundred times and how sad was it that he knew how to stitch up Dean's side but didn't know how to use a fork correctly?

"T'morrow," Dean said decisively, and Castiel paused in taping the gauze down.

"What is tomorrow, Dean?"

"Show you how to…fork," Dean said, patting Cas' hand awkwardly. "No sand'ches."

"I'd like that," Cas said. "But tonight, you must rest."

"An' chopsticks," Dean insisted. "S' you c'n eat."

Cas put the last piece of tape in place and wiped off his hands. "Yes," he agreed. "Anything you want. Tomorrow. Now you need to sleep."

Cas stood, moved the first aid kit to the nightstand, tugged a couple of the bloodier towels from under Dean. He then pulled the sheets over Dean, tucking them carefully around him.

As Cas moved to turn away, Dean fumbled for his wrist, grabbed, and tugged, until Cas was sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. "Don' go."

"Okay," Castiel said easily. He reached out and smoothed a cool hand over Dean's forehead once more, threaded his fingers into Dean's hair, rubbed gently.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean mumbled, eyes drifting closed.

"Of course, Dean," Cas said, voice soft. Dean sighed, felt the faint tug of stitches, of being sewn back, made whole. Had the faint memory of Castiel repairing him, of being gripped tight and raised, of flesh knitting together from shreds.

"Always saving me," he breathed.

"Yes, Dean," Cas said, so faint Dean wasn't sure it was real. "I will always put you back together."


End file.
